I have a disclaimer here, for me a particular pleasure of where I live is its Asianness, so, in my photography of public areas in Greater-Silicon Valley, I may photograph a higher percentage of Asians than their percentage of the actual population. End disclaimer.
One of my favorite pleasures in life is the San Mateo Farmer’s Market; it is on my short list of hypothetical places I would bring a hypothetical visitor, to this part of the world, if I were a hypothetical tour guide. Any Farmer’s Market is fun, but especially the San Mateo Farmer’s Market, where I know the Egg Lady and can get pasture raised chicken eggs – the chicken are pasture raised, not the eggs, they aren’t raised at all – and some nice Pu’er tea. Michele can get a hunk of bacon to flavor some beans and a steak for tonight.
And we can both wander for an hour buying vegetables.
Fresh cooked crab (with a torn part of a paper bag in one of its claws, it had been trying to hold on when Michele put it in the boiling water).
As Michele and I were getting ready to watch the 49ers beat the Seahawks, Michele suggested she get some popcorn and hot dogs. She thought it would be a nice touch, typical football game food; I thought, What? Crab is much more typical playoff food after all it comes in season just in time for the playoffs, before I caught myself , realizing that hot dogs are – indeed – the quintessential game time food. At halftime, as we waited for the teams to come back so San Francisco could finish off Seattle, we ate our hot dogs. But, in the second half, as it became increasingly certain that Seattle would win, I started thinking about watching those Super Bowls with my mother and stepfather.
Growing up, college football was a much bigger deal than Professional Football, my stepfather – who my mother had married while I was stationed in Korea and did not feel like much of a father figure – however had season tickets to the 49ers at Kezar Stadium. Kezar was a much smaller stadium – only 18,000 people between the goal lines – than Cal’s Memorial Stadium or Stanford Stadium, and watching the 49ers play there, in the early 60’s, seemed more amateurish than watching the actual amateurs (and I think college players were amateurs in the 60s).
I was living in Oakland at the time and, a couple of years after the Raiders came to town, I got season tickets. Oakland was a great place to live that always seemed to be getting the wrong end of the stick compared to the much more glamorous San Francisco and that carried over into football. The 49ers were in the NFL and the Raiders were in the new AFL which was considered inferior. My stepfather, Sherry, was very gracious about the NFL’s superiority however, and several times we took each other to our team’s games.
After the first Super Bowl, Sherry and I talked after the game. We both agreed that Green Bay was almost unbeatable, after they beat Kansas City Chiefs 35 to 10 (most people considered the real Super Bowl to be the NFL Championship game in which Green Bay had beat the Cowboys). During the second Super Bowl, while Green bay was crushing Oakland, Sherry called me several times to talk during the game. We agreed to watch Super Bowl III together at his home.
My mother was not especially interested in football, college, professional, or otherwise. As an aside, I played football in highschool and it occurs to me that my mother never came to a game. End aside. As uninterested as she might have been in the game however, my mother was interested in having a nice lunch for the occasion. In those days, going to a professional game was more formal and the men would wear sports coats and ties – maybe this is where the term sports coat came from, something to wear to watch a game, that would be more casual than a suit – and I am sure that I showed up for Super bowl III wearing a coat and tie.
Going to my mother’s was usually a formal occasion and this luncheon was no different even though the occasion was a football game. The women were probably wearing dresses, the TV was probably black and white, and most people expected the NFL to – again – beat the AFL team. In this case, the NFL team was the Baltimore Colts that had gone 13-1 during the regular season and the AFL team was the New York Jets. The Colts had crushed the Cleveland Browns 34–0, in the NFL Championship Game, and the Jets had to come from behind to beat the Raider’s in their Championship game (they had previously lost to the Raider’s in the infamous Heidi game, named that because NBC had cut away from the game, with the Jets leading, to broadcast the film Heidi).
At halftime, we broke for lunch, in the diningroom, with the Jets leading 7-zip and we were served fresh crab with a salad. Today, it seems so incongruous, even slightly archaic, but it started a Parsons/Stern family tradition of getting together for the Super Bowl with fresh crab.
Unlike the 49ers, the New York Jets increased their lead in the second half and beat the 19-point-favorite Baltimore Coats 16-7.
When I was growing up. my family didn’t much talk about the Holocaust and I have since learned that, at the time, almost nobody did. Out of shame, I think. On the Jewish side, shame that they let the catastrophe – Shoah – happen to them (although, of course, they really didn’t). On the German’s side, shame that they had let themselves become such monsters (although, of course, not all of them were). On everybody’s else’s side, shame that they were passive bystanders (although, of course, in the end, they weren’t). However for much of Michele’s long lost, just found, family – collectively known as The Cousins – the Shoah was the center of their lives.
Michele’s father, Kurt, got out of Europe before the war with, apparently, the help of his – then -wife’s family. They bought him a ticket to the United States where he joined the US Army, watched Europe convulse from the safety of the Aleutian Islands, divorced, changed into a lapsed Catholic named Kurt von Henriksberg from Belgium, remarried, became a photographer and, then, an American success story as Kurt Heath, the developer. In the process, he left his family behind with his old life.
Michele grew up wondering why all of her Catholic father’s stories didn’t quite line up. So, after Kurt died and after she read and reread his self-written obituary, after she obtained his Social Security application and found out Kurt’s real name was Hoenigsberg, Michele went to the Internet. There she found a family tree that had a branch almost the same as the family Kurt talked about. One of the family, Fred Hilsenrath – in suspenders above – even lived nearby. Michele called him and to see if he was related to her father, while he doubted they were related, he invited us over for dinner (just like Kurt would have done). That was the first clue, the second was their matching accents, and the third was a picture that Claudia brought of their grandfather that was taken in Fred’s home town in Romania.
I had the honor of spending some time with this family at a get together organized by Fred and Michele’s sister, Claudia. In a curious way, I felt very much at home with them. Michele’s cousins give the impression of being closer to my father’s family of my childhood than they do to any part of Michele’s family that I have known.
There is an observational joke sometime attributed to Israel’s first Prime Minister, David Ben Gurion, who said For every two Jews, there are three opinions. In many ways that is the core of the Jewish intellectual legacy. I have been told that it is much of what the Talmud is about and it seems to be the core of both this family and what I remember of my family growing up. Some of my fondest memories of my father – and mother, for that matter – are arguments. Arguments over Dred Scott v. Sandford or the desirability of a tram to the top of Mt. San Jacinto with my dad; here, arguments over Israel or affordable health care. There were more than two Jews at the reunion – and because this is a modern family, and much of it, a modern American family, there were more than just Jews – and many more than three opinions.
There was also time for more than arguing and discussing the world at the reunion, there was time to eat – lots of time to eat –
There was time to visit with grandchildren,
time to tell stories, and take photographs.
At the end of the day, there was time to drink a toast to life, to resilience, and to family.
Three years ago, Michele and I were in China – Shanghai to be exact – on the weekend of the Bahrain Grand Prix1 wondering where to go to see the race. A week or two before, we had seen the Chinese Grand Prix in our hotel room near Wulingyuan National Park. Even though I am a Formula One nut, it was not a very satisfactory experience watching the race, alone in a hotel room, in Chinese. Michele suggested that we try a expat sports bar where the energy should be much higher and the broadcast in English. We ended up at the Big Bamboo – Your Favorite Sports Bar & Grill – and had a great time. As sort of a remembrance, I bought a hat which I proudly wore for about two years and eleven months when, somehow, I lost it.
About a week ago, I emailed Big Bamboo to get a replacement and they sent me not one, but two new Big Bamboo hats. Thank you very much! If you are ever in Shanghai drop by, I see that today the Big Bamboo is featuring the St. Louis Blues at San Jose Sharks (game 3) and the San Antonio Spurs at Golden State Warriors. I wish I was there.
Last Tuesday, Michele and I celebrated – maybe over celebrated – Fat Tuesday, today our Lent starts. For the next six weeks, we have agreed to stay off of all intoxicants (we don’t count coffee, tea, or sugar). This has pretty much become a tradition of ours and we find it sort of ironically enjoyable to honor Lent without being Christians. Following a nominally Christian ritual without being tied to the dogma – or a Hindu ritual in a temple in Bali for that matter – always gets me thinking how religions build on the religious traditions they are replacing. Maybe build is not the right word, maybe it should be expropriate or piss on.
It seems to me that it takes both temporal and physical forms. Christmas, the celebration of the birth of Christ, takes place at about the time of the old Pagan Winter Solstice festivals. The Pagans were here first with Solstice celebrations like the Roman Saturnalia, among others, and as Christianity became the dominant religion, it took on the trappings of Saturnalia but changed them to a celebration of Christ’s birth. Part of what happens in that the holiday is already there, so tweaking it to become the new holiday is easier than starting fresh but part of it is also sticking a metaphorical finger in their – whoever they are – metaphorical face.
I know that we are doing that in reverse. That is actually what we are doing. Every year we have a Solstice celebration that works because it is already holiday party season: the tree is up, the yule log is lit, so making it about the Solstice is pretty easy. That is also what we are doing with Lent. After all, Lent really is a result of adjusting to the scarcity of late winter, early spring. It makes a virtue of a problem. Like Gefilte fish came from the poor Jews of Eastern Europe not being able to afford a fish worth cooking whole, or beef bourguignon being the peasants answer to tough pieces of meat. The point being, the causes of Lent were already there; the Church just took it over.
In the same way. the Conquistadors, or Missionaries, whoever they were, built their new churches on old sacred sites. They jammed the new religion down the old religion’s throat. Now comes the fun part: in Chichicastenango, Guatemala – and I am sure there are hundreds, if not thousands of similar situations – the Mayas have now turned the Church stairs back into their Temple. They have re-expropriated the Sacred Temple. By acknowledging Lent, by honoring it; I like to think we are doing the same thing.
And we can both wander for an hour buying vegetables.
Or pick-up the makings for miso soup.
